


Dark Dwellings

by Skinnley



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Omega, Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Druids, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Geralt won't let anyone hurt her ever again, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Nymphs & Dryads, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Rape Aftermath, Romance, Slow Burn, i wish i could be comforted so bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23488828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skinnley/pseuds/Skinnley
Summary: A lost soul in the heart of the Great Sea brought into the seeming warmth and safety of a royal family. Yet, everyone seems to pretend they can't hear the cries that echo from the prince's quarters. King Dominique calls her his daughter and pretends to not know the sadistic characteristics of his sole heir. Castle walls are suffocating and her lungs are retching.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The entirety of this will not be dark. I often vent through my writing as well as my yearning to be comforted and protected. I also plan for future chapters to be far longer, but I wanted to begin this story.

The gaudy ballroom seemed unworldly immense, an array of deep velvets and maroons, painting the guests beneath in a sea of burgundy red. Geralt wrinkled his nose at the smell, body odor, and harsh perfumes, the occasional hint of bile and piss. Nobles seemed to have an incredibly difficult time handling watered-down fucking wine. He kept his brow furrowed, watching an array of brutes in silk dress clothes cheer and jaunt, high born heirs with such pure bloodlines he had no doubt their own parents shared parents. 

He kept in the shadows, making eye contact with the occasional curious wavering eye, only to watch them quickly bob their head away. The stories of witchers they heard as children were vastly clashing with the fact that the White Wolf was their damned guest of honor. Drinking deeply from the mug of ale, one of the few good things of the godawful celebration, he quickly walked the walls of the giant room, searching keenly for a quick exit. The sooner he could get away from the overly stimulating sites, smells, and sounds of that retched room, the better. 

An archway gave way to the hushed world that only night brought, a wide balcony bathed in the silver of the full moon. As soon as he entered, he heard the beat of a heart, seemingly lost amongst the comforting silence. Sighing deeply, he turned to leave, only to pause for the voice that spoke to him. 

“Not a fan of court either?” The voice was feminine and smooth with a slight huskiness to it, deliciously appealing to the ears. She didn’t turn to look at him, instead keeping her focus up and on the array of stars that sprinkled the night sky. Geralt took this moment to study her, from behind at the very least, something he definitely didn’t mind doing. Silk fabric clung to every curve, a pale blue that nearly tricked the eyes into believing it was actually white. It seemed to drip from her like water, figure soft and appealing, a statue molded from clay. Unlike the other women inside, no heavy fragrance clung to her, rather, something sweet and tangy, an orchard in the midst of spring. 

“You appear to blend in more with them than I.” Making the decision to step closer, he approached slowly, waiting for her to turn, to realize and quickly usher herself away from him. Instead, she turns her head towards him, raising a black brow and scoffing. He finds himself unprepared for how young she looks with skin like fresh milk and stormy silver eyes, face round and cheekbones high, lips plump and facial features all too alluring to be natural. A fucking sorceress, he thought, holding in the irritated groan threatening to spill from his lips. 

“Being in there makes my head hurt, like my skulls vibrating from within. Plus, they fucking smell.” She wrinkles her nose at this with an extra emphasis on the word “smell”. Tightly, slender fingers grip the stone wall of the balcony, knuckles straining against skin. Geralt finds himself nearly smirking at her comment, lip twitching ever so slightly. Perhaps the two of them shared more in common than he originally thought. 

A loud drunken cheer echoes from the guests swindled within the ballroom and she groans, moving her hands to rest atop the stone and leaning into it. Turning her head, he can feel her studying him, the thick lashes of her doe eyes making the silver orbs look even larger. “I don’t quite understand the descriptions I’ve heard of witchers from the gossip of the castle.”

“What were you expecting? Claws?” His humor is dry and a slight edge of irritation creeps beneath his words, golden eyes staring into her own. 

She shrugs at this, twirling a length of inky hair around her finger, “Hardly. I’m beginning to think that maybe they were just jealous.” The pink tip of her tongue darts out for a moment, wetting her lower lip. Geralt would be lying if he didn’t feel the slight rush that only women were capable of giving him. 

“Caleya.” She winces slightly at this, a third beating heart joining the balcony, her own now an erratic and anxious speed. Geralt turns towards the man, brows slightly furrowed, hand itching to grab a sword from his hip. Fear was something he had long learned the sound and scent of. Prince Adrian ignores the presence of the witcher all together, eyes resting on the young woman. He’s nearly as tall as Geralt himself, a large and stout man with piercing green eyes and coarse brown hair. 

“Brother.” A slightly forced smile rests on her lips, weak and dangerously close to slipping, “I just needed some air.” 

“Having another one of your episodes, are you? Perhaps I should escort you to your chambers to lay down?” Adrian holds his arm out towards her and she hesitates, glancing back at the sleeping forest, opening her mouth to respond. The prince cuts her off before she can speak, however, his expression hardening. 

“I hope she hasn’t bothered you too much, Witcher. Young girls and there naive curiosities.” He forces out a chuckle, resting his hand on Caleya’s waist once she’s next to him, her eyes downcast, locks of hair creating a curtain between her and Geralt. The White Wolf offers no response, instead casting his deadly glare at the prince in front of him. The fact that she wasn’t a witch took him by surprise, her physical appearance seeming much too serene to be truly real. 

He had not seen her once, not even in the dining hall, and Geralt was sure he would have remembered seeing her. Adrian’s grip at her waist tightens, his fingertips no doubt digging harshly into her ribs. She offers no confirmation of this and keeps her same solace expression, heart still thundering within her chest. Without further explanation the two are gone, disappearing from the balcony and into the depths of the castle. 

An age spot showed on the stone gate, a slight crack atop the sturdy structure. From it slight and soft flowers grew, the color of robin eggs. The further Caleya’s footsteps echoed, the more the flowers wilted until they turned into a dark brown all together. Geralt attempted to grasp one of the now lifeless flowers but the petals turned to dust between his fingertips and disappearing into the wind.


	2. Chapter 2

“You should go back to your quarters now.” He does the ties on his trousers, standing over her and acting so placid and calm like his fingertips didn’t just leave welts on her throat. Her airway still burns, the pounding ache in her head a response to her lungs begging for oxygen. Another coughing fit erupts from her mouth and the rusty taste of blood rests on her tongue, threatening to run over her lips. Adrian sneers at this, turning away from her, but not before she can glimpse his disgust. “You’re a fucking mess.”

Caleya doesn’t respond, tugging the torn and wilted straps of her gown back over her shoulders. It had been one of her favorites, so stunningly soft and blue, but like so many others, he had ruined it. Getting up is a painful chore but she does it, ignoring the lead heaviness in her head and the other aches she’d rather regret. 

In less than a minute, she’s gone, heart rate already calming the minute the door closes behind her. The walk from his chambers to her own is long and her ankles buckle on several occasions, but she doesn’t fall, willing herself to make it to her single safe place. The moment she does she lets herself sink, the stone floor too invitingly cold against her scorching skin, fingers dissecting and pulling at the ruined dress until it’s off her body and a pile on the floor. Kicking at it, she screams in frustration, the hot tears leaking down her cheeks a mixture of anger and exhaustion.

A flick of her wrist and water reigns down from her shower, steaming and scolding, thudding against the floor beneath, sounding far more like a thunderstorm. Crawling there, a deep feeling of patheticness claws inside her stomach, overbearing and overstimulating at the same time. Once beneath the water, she stays there, the ache in her skull slowly fading. She circles the drain with a single fingertip, watching the pink-toned water disappear. 

...  
He’s pacing, moving back and forth with such brooding thought that he’s surprised he hasn’t made footprints. Don’t get involved in the problems of men. You fight monsters, not people. For decades Geralt had told himself this, repeating it in the back of his mind until he finally seemed to accept it. Yet, here he was again, heavily considering, hand constantly reaching for the steel sword at his side. He had yet to even change from his black armor, his mind preoccupied with Caleya from the moment she walked from the balcony. Surely being a princess brought her some comfort and warmth into her life, even with the pressing future of being married off and used to bear heirs. King Dominque was a kind and caring man and if he protected his kingdom with such caring ferocity, surely he would do the same thing for his own child. 

Yet he still holds that feeling, that burning instinct that something isn’t right. The way she tensed up, the flinching, the way he grabbed at her fucking ribs like she was a disobedient animal. Perhaps it could be who she was interacting with, maybe her brother felt a sense of anger at her speaking with the famed witcher. Running his fingertips through his white mane, a deep sigh escapes him, “Fucking hell.”   
The door of the guest room opens silently, the hallway dimly lit and most of the inhabitants of the castle long retired to a drunken sleep. He walks along it silently, keen ears listening for even the slightest hint of something being wrong. It’s like this for some time, the castle almost ominously silent. A sign of life only comes from the ballroom, the scrubbing of floors saturated in wine, food, and vomit, the clinging of countless dishes. Voices linger within, speaking in hushed tired tones as they worked. 

“Where did Edith wander off to? I swear that girls always distracted by something.” A woman’s voice snorted, accompanied by the sound of rough scrubbing. 

“Prince Adrian needed something, gods only know what.” Another woman responds, her tone slightly rougher. 

“I saw him leave with the princess, poor girl. Last time he took off with her Priscilla had to work on her for a week.”

“I don’t think she quite counts as a princess, besides, she has to sleep with the prince on occasion, so what? She’s fed, sheltered, educated, more of a life than either of us will ever fucking have. The king could have left her where he found her, then where would she be? Priscilla is skilled enough, she can put the girl back together again whenever Adrian gets too worked up.” 

The rest of the conversation doesn’t make it to his ears, the deep anger bubbling inside him his sole concentration. Rape was an unfortunate thing he had witnessed far too many times, the carnal and possessive desire that rested not only within the monsters he fought but humans, too. While Dominque feasted, celebrated, and slept, his son raped and pillaged right within the castle walls. His own fucking daughter. 

All his training told him to kill Adrian immediately, to march straight to the pathetic waste of flesh and cut him down right where he stood. He was no longer new to this life, however, he knew what happened when he got involved in the affairs of men. If he were to take out the king’s heir right now, it would be disastrous. Not only for him but for the few other survivors of his kind, stories already had spread like wildfire throughout the continent about the witchers. Geralt could only imagine what would happen if he took out the son of a king. 

Begrudgingly, he made the decision to wait, to find the proper moment to strike. Guilt was already eating at him, a feeling he had not been acquainted with for some time. Typically, he saved the victims, he did not hand them to the very monsters that meant to harm them. Had he sent the doe-eyed girl to her slaughter by ignoring the way she reacted to Adrian’s presence? 

Even if he was going to wait to strike, he needed to ensure that she was alright and at least safe for the night.   
...  
Sleep never came, exhaustion instead a pricking needle behind her eyes, the hues a diluted and pale blue, the silver long having disappeared. Caleya had been certain the tears would end as they typically did, drying out and leaving nothing but a parched throat behind. Tonight, however, they kept coming, the constant dampness something she had given up on wiping away. Outside had begun to pour as well, the scent of rain a small comfort as it crept in through her open window. 

Pillows dotted the floor, blankets a curled mess from all her tossing and turning. Sleep wasn’t a typical part of her night, it had not been for some time, but she still craved it. Pushing the blankets away, she sat up, body slightly protesting. She longed for the greenery of the palace garden, with it crawling vines and billowing trees. Everything was pure there, untouched and free, a naive and innocent safety she found herself often wishing for. 

Potted plants rested in front of her window, small seedlings that had just pushed their green heads above the soft dirt. She moved from her bed, going to the small growing things and resting down on her knees. Stroking the petite leaves, they grew against her fingers, roots growing deeper and stems blossoming upwards. Petals of silver and blue unraveled, stopping their game of peek-a-boo and showing her their pale yellow centers. The soft hum she sung filled the air, findings itself on the other side of the door and to the ears of the witcher that stood on the other side.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't spell checked this yet so sorry for any errors. Comments are always appreciated <3

Priscilla’s hands are warm and soft, gentle maternal touches against Caleya’s bruised throat. The sun had long risen, its rays bright and deceiving, the plants that rested in front of her window full grown and no longer seedlings. The burning in her airway was soothed away by the chilled healing magic, her breaths immediately becoming easier. 

“You should have gotten me right after, Cale.” The mage’s eyes study her, the only soul in the entire castle who had ever held her during her sleepless nights. 

“I could barely make it to my room.” Turning to her side, the young woman sighs in relief, pulling a blanket closer against her chest. Faded scars decorated the pale flesh of her back, sensitive skin that that managed to be several shades lighter than her already creamy tone. Each time the laces of her corset were done the skin stung, damaged nerves that even through magic could never be entirely fixed. 

“Are they still bothering you?” Cold fingers gently glide over the skin, comforting against her constant blazing temperature. 

“Mostly after I’m laced into my dresses.” She crosses her arms over her chest, drinking in the comforting touch, the vague memories of her mother a foggy memory in the back of her mind. Distant pieces of the ocean and tall green trees scattered around her mind, a past life she clung desperately to. 

“Adrian told your father that you weren’t feeling well at breakfast, the fucking bastard.” Priscilla’s fingers moved to her hair, brushing the dark locks and attempting to comfort the young woman as much as she could. Caleya offers no response to this, the dark circles beneath her eyes seeming to nearly pulse with exhaustion. Laying in bed all day wasn’t an option, although she dreadfully wished it was. 

“Can you walk me to the garden, Cilla?” 

…  
Geralt had no slept once, ears constantly in tune and listening for even the slightest sound of movement from Adrian’s room as well as Caleya’s for the entirety of the night. He walked the halls of the castle for the better part of the night, managing to avoid the bustle of servants and guards, for the most part. Even the few who he did come in contact with didn’t seem keen to interact and quickly distanced themselves from him. Once the sun had begun to rise he returned to his guest quarters, sitting silently in a cushioned chair, awaiting the invitation of breakfast. The King had begged for a final meal during his hosting of the witcher, and initially, Geralt’s readiness to accept the offer was due to the offer of a hearty morning meal. Now, his main intention was to check on the girl once they were all set at the table. 

Eventually, the invitation came, and he obliged, fingers twitching with the fury he had felt consistently since his discovery. He waited for her to walk into the room, to sit at the vastly large table. That moment never came however and he scowled at this, golden eyes constantly searching Adrian’s face. Barely five minutes into the meal the long-faced piece of shit opened his mouth, speaking smoothly, “Priscilla stopped me before I came down, Caleya’s resting in bed for a bit longer. She started feeling ill at the celebration last night.” 

Geralt fingers grip at the mug in his hand, his long-held in anger beginning to spill over. Slamming the drink down on the table he growls, an animalistic sound coming from his throat. “Tell me, King Dominique, does everyone in this blessed fucking castle know what your son does in the evenings?” 

Dominque’s aged face nearly goes slack, pausing the fork that’s being brought to his lips. He slowly sets the silverware down, no response coming from his mouth. Adrian’s own eyes were narrowed at the witcher, a deep frown elongating his features even further. 

“The affairs of this family are no business of yours, witcher.” Dominque finally manages to come up with words, his strong voice frail. 

“I’m beginning to think you had me put down the wrong monster.” Geralt hisses the words from between his teeth, rising from his chair. For a moment his hand rests on his steel sword, the vivid imagery of Adrian’s hit being sliced from his shoulders. Not giving it feels like denying himself the ability to breathe but he managed, letting go of the swords handle. 

“He is my heir, Geralt. I could not have him terrorizing the women of the kingdom with his needs, could I? By bringing Caleya to this kingdom, I kept my people safe as well as my son.”

Adrian smiles at this, a spoiled and sadistic child, bringing a plump portion of pork to his lips. He bits into it, juices dribbling down into his face, the inhuman darkness in his eyes something the witcher had only seen in very few of the creatures he had hunted. 

A clothe bag of coins flies through the air, landing square in the middle of the table, “Keep your fucking gold. I’ll be collecting my horse and leaving.” 

...  
The stables were kept within the castle garden, a well built and sound structure for the expensive horses of the royal family. Caleya brushed her fingertips over the white splotched nose of a brown mare, a guest amongst the other horses she was used to. 

“You must be the witcher’s girl, hm?” The mare nuzzled against the woman’s hand appreciatively, easily connecting with her. Life seemed often attached to the princess, bending easily at her will, from the smallest of plants to the largest of animals. 

“You fit in so well with the west of the working animals, my dear Leya. Perhaps I should keep you in a barn all of your own.” Adrian’s voice makes her jump, body tensing immediately. She turns to miss him, the ache he had caused still lingering on her body. 

“Did you truly think spilling our arrangement to a witcher would offer you some path out of this?” His voice is acid now, a temperamental heat that she can feel rising in the space between them. 

“I didn’t tell him anything.” Instinctively he steps back, form pushed tightly against the mare’s stall. A loud neigh erupts from her, body trying to move against the gate keeping her in place. 

“Then why did he announce his knowledge during breakfast, little sister? What explanation could you possibly have for that?” He closes the space between them, thumb and forefinger harshly gripping her chin, “You are mine and mine alone, until the very day I die.” Hot breath presses against her skin and she pushes his hand away, hiding the tremor that hits her body. 

“Don’t touch me!” Anger is something she’s felt often, but voicing it came far and in between. The pale blue of her eyes had darkened into such a deep tone that they were nearly black. 

“Don’t forget your place, whore!” He brings himself in closer, spit flying from his mouth and landing on her exposed skin, “I will break you apart and have you put back together again and again, there is no leaving this place, no way out.” 

Caleya glared up at him, the feeling of his spit on her face a further reminder of how tired she was of constantly trying to rid her flesh of him. When his hands connect with her body she twists and turns, a futile attempt to escape his constant giving of pain. A palm attempts to cover her mouth and she bites down on it, the rust laden taste of blood on her tongue for once not her own. Immediately she spits, refusing to allow any of him on her. His yell of anger doesn’t even seem to sound human as he throws her to the hay covered ground before, foot connecting with her ribs. He expects her to flinch and when she doesn’t, he kicks harder, an audible crack hanging in the air. 

The mare kicks her legs harder, rattling the wooden walls of the barn. Adrian lowers himself to the ground, crawling of her body and bringing his teeth down against her neck. When he pulls away he takes flesh with him, spitting her skin into the ground beneath them. The pain in her side is rattling, sparking a memory of the last time she angered him. 

When his hands move to her thighs she screams, a slicing and inhuman sound. 

...  
Roach had been moved from her original spot, instead tucked away into the palace garden with the rest of the prized horses. It only served to irritate him further, guilt and anger pressing down on his subconscious. Geralt wished again, as he had many times in his life, that the whispers of witchers being devoid of emotions were true. 

The scream that interrupted his thoughts was shrill and high, piercing the air like a blade. Immediately he was off, moving at an inhuman speed, the scent of wildflowers, scorched flesh, and blood increasing heavily the closer he got. Soon the anxious sounds of Roach filled his ears as well, a sound his mare did not often make. 

Bursting through the barn door the scent intensifies, Roach calming slightly at the sight of him. Curled up against the gate of the horse’s stall was Caleya, a trickle of thick blood running over her collar bone. Their eyes connected immediately for a moment before she turned her head away, looking instead towards the corner of the structure. Adrian laid crumpled, his midsection burned open, like a fire had started from within his gut and burned him from the inside out. 

“They’re going to execute me.” She barely whispers it, words shaking. It’s the second interaction they’ve had in twenty-four hours, and he knows how incredibly awful he is at these sorts of things. He kneels down next to her, deliberately slow, with as much gentleness as his broad form can allow. 

“I think you deserve to live.” His tone is gruff but not unkind, golden eyes boring into her own as he thought and attempted to vocalize what to say to her. For a moment his eyes close and he sighs, the words he’s ready to say something he never expected to say, “I can find you somewhere safe, somewhere far away from all of this, somewhere where you can truly begin to live.” 

Caleya looks at him peculiarly, brows knitted together, body vibrating with exhaustion and the slightest hint of hope. She nods at this, pushing herself from the ground, legs as shaky as newborn fowls. Geralt ends this quickly, lifting her into his arms and opening Roach’s stall. Within minutes they’re both settled, his solid form safe against hers, arms like barriers around her body. In his old and threading black cloak, she nearly drowns, hidden under the fabric and away from any prying eyes, not that many would find them, anyway. 

She expected to feel anxious so close to him, body literally encircled by his strong form. Instead, a sense of calmness settled in her belly, a warm safety that she had yeared so long for. Nestled against him she felt herself drifting, body heavy from years of sleepless nights.


	4. Chapter 4

Something cold at her neck brought forth her awareness, eyes snapping open and a startled expression heavy on her soft features. Immediately, Caleya’s hand grasped the wrist of the form kneeling beside her, slender fingers= clenched against rough and calloused skin. It could nearly be seen as comedic, as her fingers were dwarfed by the fist they clenched. When the golden hue of two eyes stared back at her, she slowly released, soft skin sliding against rough for just a moment. 

“Sorry.” She whispered it, moving her hand to rest atop her stomach, a stiff ache present throughout the entirety of her body. The pain in her ribs was worse, sharp and burning, bones no doubt bruised and fractures from the tip of Adrean’s boot. 

Geralt looks away for a moment, contemplation on his features, trying to think of what to say, or if he should say anything. He makes the decision of silence, the last of the blood cleared from her throat. The wound wasn’t nearly as deep as he had initially feared, the damage resting at the surface of her ivory skin. He had ridden Roach deep into the forestry of Matala through a particular path he himself knew and trusted well. It ensured that, for the most part, they didn’t intrude on any of the creatures that inhabited the mystical forestry. It also protected them from the party no doubt set out to have their heads by King Dominique. For four hours they traveled, concealed between the tall and thick brush of the few territories completely uninhabited by man. 

“You’re burning up.” His voice is gruff, vocal cords adjusting to speaking again. Geralt had often found himself so comfortable with the silence that at times speaking felt foreign. 

“Always.” She sighs, wincing as she sits up, fingers scaling her ribs with a slight grunt. The moonlight that had managed to peak between the trees reflected off her skin, giving her more of a glow than she already had. Inky locks had long escaped her braid, framing the rounded shape of her face. He fucking hated it, the intense magnifying presence she had that nudged at his subconscious to move closer. The idea of someone needing him was terrifying, as was the inner guilt he felt of scaring her away further. There seemed not a single plausible way for his attraction to her to be helpful; she had long endured enough of the evil infatuations of men. 

Caleya tilted her head, looking up at the brooding force of a man through her thick mink like lashes, unsure of what to say further. For half a decade she had feared the presence of a man but felt not even a twinge of anxiety around the fearsome witcher. 

Surveying the area quickly, her eyes quickly settled on the stream that flowed ten feet away from their roaring fire. The thought of cold water against her searing skin was delectable, as was ridding her skin of the final touches of Adrean. 

“Geralt…” She tested his name on her full lips, catching his attention immediately, even himself taken back by her using his real name for the first time, “Do you by chance have any soap?”   
...

Geralt sat with his back against a tree, staring into the endless darkness of the forest. He could hear the occasional splash of water, the smell of the cheap and basic vegetable soap he kept on hand filling his nostrils. Typically the smell was bland to the point where he didn’t notice it, but the soft undertone of wildflowers had transformed the aroma into something he struggled to not think of. Finally, after what felt like far too long, he heard her exit the little stream, the sound of fabric returning to skin filling his ears. He had offered her his spare tunic gods only knew why, it wasn’t as if he owned many of them. The thought of her having to put on the blood stricken cotton dress she had been prior didn’t feel quite right, though. 

“I’m dressed.” The warm softness of her voice flooded his ears and he tightly closed his eyes for a moment, sighing quietly under his breath. When he turned he was taken back, the tone of her skin had taken on a silvery blue. “What are you?” He spoke bluntly, as he was used to, brows knitted together tightly. Carefully she looked up at him, rolling her black tights up her shapely legs. 

“I don’t know. A monster, perhaps, kin to the creatures you exterminate.” She shrugs her slender shoulders, eyes distant with faraway thoughts. Dark circles took residence beneath her large eyes, shadows that he was sure had rested there for some time. 

“You should sleep.” As should he, but he knows he won’t. 

“Not likely.” The brown tunic dwarfs her form but she had put her bodice over the fabric, keeping everything tight against her slender waist. Already he is sure his clothing looks far better on her than him. 

“Hmm,” Is the only response he gives, and he can’t help but be thankful when she makes no further conversation. 

...  
The sun had just barely begun to rise, a soft orange glow in the still deep blue sky. Caleya brushed her fingers down the horse’s long nose, her eyes heavy and dry, desperate for even the slightest bit of rest. She had tried on several occasions but nothing ever happened, mind refusing to give in to the exhaustion of her body. Nearly two hours had passed since the witcher seemed to have fallen asleep, back still against a tree, facial hair darkening from new growth. When his eyes had closed, she had begun to study him, to take in each and every feature. He was quite handsome, she had decided, and broad, a powerful body and an equally powerful mind. She had seen men before, plenty had frequented the castle, and several had even been handsome, but not like him. He seemed incredibly protective, and not only because of his hulking form; this trait alone made him appealing to her. 

“You’re such a good girl.” She cooed softly to the strong mare, lips ever so slightly turned up into a smile. Roach had tried to protect her from Adrean, the animal far more caring than so many others he had met. 

“If you compliment her too much it’ll go straight to her head.” His voice startles her, head whipping back to the now standing man. She hadn’t heard him even slightly, thoughts too preoccupied with so many other things. A dizzy fatigue ate at her head, a mix of emotions from the past few days. 

“There’s a settlement an hour away, we can head there, find something to eat and perhaps some of your own clothes.” This time he succeeds in making her nearly smile but it lasts only a moment before it vanishes from her face. 

Several minutes later everything is gathered, placed back onto Roach. Caleya watches in silence, the thought of helping brief and quickly gone from her mind. The thought of riding again, especially while conscious, makes her stomach coil. Adrean was long dead, but her body still felt the pain of his yearning want. Nausea rose in the back of her throat, hot and burning. 

“Are you ready?” He’s looking at her now, waiting to help her up, features hard and concentrated on her face. Explaining is useless and only more humiliating so she simply nods, allowing him to help lift her to the saddle. Shortly after, Geralt’s warm body rests behind her, large arms enveloping her. When Roach breaks off into a brisk walk, she clenches her teeth, trying to concentrate on anything but the flaring pain. 

...  
The loudness of voices and yelling of merchants is startling, something Caleya can’t quite remember ever experiencing. She’s never been a fan of crowded places, of overly abundant sweaty bodies and intimidating voices. On instinct, she curls back into Geralt, trying to hide further from the prying eyes around him. A large hand settled on her hip, heavy and strangely comforting, a protective grip at her form. 

“Don’t concentrate on them.” HIs raspy voice tickles against her ear and she nods, chewing on her full lower lip. Casting her eyes down she instead traces the soft fur of Roach’s back, studying the rich tone of brown. 

Geralt kept his hand on her, glowering at any person he feels lets their eyes linger too long, particularly men. Caleya radiated something inhumanly appealing and he was determined to keep everyone and thing away from her. Next time, he’d ensure his cloak was heavy around her whole body, concealing her from the curious glances of nosey villagers. Even in the cloud heavy sky she glimmers, a slice of moonlight in the dreary atmosphere. 

“What do you need here?” He almost misses her voice, the softness almost carried away in the wind.   
“I’m low on a particular number of things. Besides, I’d prefer for us to spend the night in an inn and not on the hard forest floor, especially you.” 

Caleya gives a slight nod, grimacing at the cold drizzle of rain that speckles against her cheeks. Suddenly the villagers seem to hurry along, set on burrowing into their homes before the clouds let down their full strength. Geralt found it calming, the less ignorant and bullshit full people he had to deal with, the better. 

For a moment they stopped, the solid form that had once sat behind her absent entirely. Instead, he now walked beside his mare, quickly picking through a number of items that merchants presented. Many were hurriedly packing away, but this made most of the items cheaper, little coin far better than no coin. This continued for several minutes until Geralt seemed to have gotten his fill, a crackle of thunder finally giving way to heavy rainfall. The cold water felt nice against her warm skin, counteracting the heat that always rested atop her skin. Geralt himself didn’t seem nearly as happy, silver strands of hair becoming plastered against his neck. 

“Fucks sake.” He growls slightly, steering Roach away and leading them to a square and sturdy looking building, an inviting orange glow flickering from the windows. “Get inside, I’ll join you in a moment.” Before the girl can he even respond he has her off the horse, square in the middle of the entryway. With deliberate slowness she enters, sense of smell immediately assaulted by a musky floral scent with an alcoholic undertone. Bright lace dresses, all frill and low cut bodices, greet her, women lounging and relaxed with playful banter. That is, until she enters, all doe eyes and creamy skin.


End file.
